


Laundry Day

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anal Fingering, Enthusiastic Consent, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charon's contract gets destroyed in the laundry; him and the Lone Wanderer celebrate. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

He doesn't do it on purpose. Neither of them know what would happen if the contract were to be lost, or destroyed, but Wadsworth is relentless with laundry. Charon wakes from his nap, Vaultie pressed into the crook of his body, shivering. Something's different, but--

"Oh dear!" Wadsworth's voice floats up through the open house plan. "I do believe Moira will need to check this machine."

Charon is careful but quick, crawling over Vaultie's sleeping form. His groggy voice follows him, asking where he was going, barefoot and dressed in his sleep clothes as he took the stairs two at a time. Wadsworth floated next to the couch, his pincers clicking anxiously.

"I apologize, Master Charon!" He wailed, his electronic voice garbled with emotion. "I hadn't realized-- and you two had been sleeping so peacefully, I didn't want to wake you or Master Adam to make sure everything was okay to wash. Oh dear."

At the far end of the kitchen was the makeshift laundry room, if it could be called that. It was simply shoved onto the end of the galley kitchen, a scavenged washing machine, powered by Moira's signature fusion cell rigging, and a small, rickety drying rack where delicate worn clothes were drying.

Charon stops in front of the basket of damp clothes. The contract is in a million balled up pieces, clinging to each and every piece of laundry.

Next to him, Vaultie makes a strangled noise. His eyes are like saucers, flickering between the basket and his ghoul manservant.

"Charon?"

Charon turns. He grabs Vaultie by his shoulders, voice urgent: "Command me?"

"Wh-what--"

"Command me to do something. Anything."

"Go--" Vaultie freezes, suddenly at a loss of words, "Go, uh. Go to Gob's Saloon?"

There is no internal twitch. His mind is silent. Charon's feet stay rooted to the floor. It's a long, tense thirty seconds, and the strong grip he has on Vaultie's biceps loosen. He doesn't move. Vaultie blinks. And smiles.

Vaultie's laugh bubbles up and out of his mouth, light and lilting. He's a foot smaller and yet, he pushes Charon back, towards the wall, tries to bracket Charon's larger body with his own, arms on either side of his head. Charon hunches down, capturing his lips against his own briefly.

"Charon," He gasps his name as they part, hands suddenly roaming, unceasing, and there's a glitter to his eyes, "Go clean the kitchen."

It's such an outlandish request, given that Wadsworth keeps the small Megaton home spic and span, given Vaultie's quiet, gentle nature, that Charon immediately catches on to the game; a smile cracks across his stony face. "No."

Vaultie's hands hike up his shirt, palm his ribs, the skin worn thin until the bone was nearly exposed. "Go-- Go iron my vault suit?" The words rush out of him in one breath.

Charon's head falls back against the wall he's pressed to with a dull thud, his smile splitting to a grin as Vaultie ducks his head under and up Charon's shirt, stretching it awkwardly to press kisses to his chest, until he finally yanks it above the mess of curls below him, giving him the room to messily attack him with kisses. "No."

He stretches to his tip toes, bypassing the shirt hiked to his collarbone, catching his chin in a half kiss, half bite. The corner of his lips, grinning wildly. The edge of his nasal cavity. "Let me, please, please-- let me... I want to-- I want you."

Charon laughs, the sound of sun-warmed rocks. He can't say it, but he knows what he wants. "Yes. Yes. I want."

Vaultie takes his hand, and guides him up, one step at a time. They go to Vaultie's room; it's unbearably crowded compared to Charon's Spartan room, a small bed tucked into a corner, sandwiched next to a filing cabinet topped with scavenged pre-war knick knacks. Charon's hips bump into the desk in the entryway, stacks of magazines wobbling in his wake.

Charon sits on the bed, dragging Vaultie into his lap. He's a bundle of energy, practically vibrating against him as he surges in to kiss him, nearly throwing Charon onto his back.

"I want to--" His nervous chatter hums against his skin; he knows where Charon is sensitive, where the skin is not tanned, irradiated leather but soft and thin, close to nerves. That's where he kisses, where he sucks, until Charon finally responds verbally, rare gasps and sharp groans that make Vaultie shudder with delight. "I want--" He distracts himself, with another piece of skin, bites down until Charon's fingers dig into his shoulders and his groan vibrates through Vaultie's lips. "I want to make you feel good."

Vaultie does not speak like a wastelander; he won't tell Charon he wants to fuck him. He speaks in metaphors and shy language, like in the songs Three Dog plays; make you feel good is as blatant as he goes, even before he ducks down to suck his cock, to snap his hips against Charon's, to do things that make Charon groan and squirm. They shed their clothing as fast as they can manage; shirts thrown over heads between quick kisses, pants and underwear shucked off simultaneously to be left tangled around ankles before falling off the bed. Charon runs his nails down Vaultie's chest, lines of pink appearing and fading in his wake.

Every time before had been consensual, every time before Charon had wanted, wanted, wanted-- and he doesn't want Vaultie any less, like this. But still, there's something beautiful, his chest constricting, thinking that there will be no accidental commands. That Charon could sink his teeth into the meat of Vaultie's shoulder without fear of his programming's retribution for causing 'pain'. That they were equal, no bonds, no tethers.

Charon lies back as Vaultie stretches over him for the nightstand, retrieving the worn tin of lubrication. He looks away only a moment, but when he looks back, he stops, swallows. Charon is stroking his stiff cock, a dark maroon color against his stomach.

"D-don't do that." Vaultie hisses, chewing on his lower lip as he slicks his pointer and middle finger up, "You're going-- you're going to make me come."

Charon arches a brow, smirking languidly. "No."

A flush creeps up his neck, his cheeks, his ears. A nervous laugh bubbles up, and he almost covers his face with the hand coated with lube, only stopping just shy of making a mess. He tosses the tin aside, missing the nightstand be a mile as he licks his lips. Charon's hand stutters as his fingers press against him, circling his hole. He eases one finger in, slow, slow, waiting for Charon to exhale, the tense line of his shoulders softening as Vaultie works him open.

Charon spreads his legs, arches his back minutely as he pumps at his cock. His patches of red hair are already clinging to his forehead from sweat. Vaultie urges another finger in, next to the first, slides them in to the hilt and crooks them up; Charon hisses, his eyes sliding closed.

It's the same, but different; which was the beauty of it all, what was making Charon's hip swivel, his heavy-lidded eyes focus on Vaultie as his gaze was pointedly focused downward. Because he had always been able to say no, but now-- he knows that there is nothing holding him back. The infinite possibilities are dizzying. And yet, he finds himself in a usual position, Vaultie patiently scissoring his fingers as he lies in a bed still warmed from their previous nap.

Vaultie's grey eyes flit up, to meet his. Charon's lip part in a silent moan, back arching sharply as Vaultie pushes in, strokes--

He pushes himself up into a sitting position with a free arm; Vaultie's fingers still, and then inadvertently crook again when Charon kisses him, hard, their moans intermingling as pleasure jumps up his spine. When they break, he looks down to Vaultie's cock; painfully untouched and heavy between his legs.

"You want...?" He's already tapping on Charon's skin with his clean hand, but they can speak; they can speak, with nothing misconstrued by contract or hardwiring.

His breath shakes as Vaultie removes his fingers. They kiss, again, and then Charon is pulling away. He settles onto his stomach, exhaling as Vaultie shifts and settles above him. He can hear the sound of his hand slicking the leftover lube onto the head of his cock, his other hand spreading his ass, squeezing.

On his stomach, Charon can't see him, but he can feel, his rifle-calloused fingers groping the meat of his ass, the heat of his body hovering over him. One hand keeps him spread, and with the other Vaultie lines himself up, "Are you..? Okay?" He rubs the head of his cock against his hole, anxious energy, and Charon relaxes, turns his cheek to gaze back and up at Vaultie. His eyes are on Charon, his bottom lip between his teeth.

He's gorgeous like this, anxious to please, his muscles held taught, ready to move. Charon hums his approval, and Vaultie pushes in. He always goes slow, slower than he needs to; but he's always been careful, like when he worries that he's going to put too much pressure on Charon when he fucks him on his stomach into the mattress, despite being at least 60 pounds lighter and a foot shorter. Charon loves it like this, though; Vaultie has no qualms, with his high endurance from always crouching and long wasteland treks, to let Charon lie down, to push into him and thrust until they're both good and sated.

He starts slow. He never means to, but he only goes faster when Charon, ever-quiet, ever stoic Charon, mumbles a tense, "Please," because the slow burn and drag of his cock in him can only take him so far. He needs the thrust, the push, the pull; he needs Vaultie's hips to snap, the thick corded muscles of his legs to help piston himself forward. He wants to be fucked into the mattress, until the pleasure builds to a peak--

And Vaultie doesn't disappoint, groaning in relief at Charon's muttered plea, thrusting in earnest now into him. The pillow is poor at muffling his moans, despite how fervently Charon tries to bury his face into it. Vaultie's hips piston into him, his arms trembling with exertion against his sides. "Touch yourself," He gasps. And Charon does it. Not because it's a command, but because he wants to, wants to come in time with the Lone Wanderer, his hand shooting down between his body and the bed--

Vaultie's body shudders above him; his arms collapse, but his hips keep on, wrapping his arms around him as he thrusts his hips down against Charon, the ghoul bucking and grinding up against him in turn. Charon is a scant few pumps away before his stomach bottoms out and he's coming just as Vaultie's body goes slack and slumps on top of him, come soaking into the sheets, spreading up against his stomach and torso. Vaultie's body sticks to his.

He kisses the back of his neck, again and again.


End file.
